The brook, long ice-bound, struggles through
Its glistening fetters, and murmurs anew
With joy at the freedom the days will bring
When the snow has gone! And I, too, sing!
“See? See? See? A flush of color you see!
The tassels are hung on the budding tree,
Before it has drawn its curtain of leaves
To shade the homes of the birds. Now weaves
The silent spring a carpet fair,
With wind-flower and hepatica there.